


Dodo

by winterlive



Series: Future Legend [2]
Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-06
Updated: 2011-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:26:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterlive/pseuds/winterlive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Keep cool," Adam says, his hands held out in peace.  The chains of diamonds wrapped around his wrists click and clack.  "We're all in this together."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dodo

"Keep cool," Adam says, his hands held out in peace. The chains of diamonds wrapped around his wrists click and clack. "We're all in this together."

Kris takes his hands away from his guns, in slow tandem with Katie and Rahab. Across the table, there's another group warily easing off. Kris can feel a pit of terror in his stomach, nauseating - he hasn't been training for long, and this whole urban warfare thing still scares the shit out of him. But he wasn't about to stay home.

The leader of the Marians is mirroring Adam's peaceful hands. "Put 'em down," Oscar says over his shoulder, back at his own crew, though he never takes his eyes off Kris and his friends. "Nobody fuck this up, okay?"

Adam smiles at him, and is probably trying to be charming and friendly. "I think we could all use a break! What do you say, guys? Get some water, some lunch, and come back fresh."

Oscar nods, and Kris senses relief in it. "We'll reconvene in about a half hour," he says, his voice as smooth as his suit.

Kris admires the man's poker face. If he were the Marian leader, and the self-proclaimed king of the freaks across the PCH was grinning at him like Jan Brady on sunshine acid after having delivered a proposal that sounded a lot like _join or die_ , Kris would be shitting bricks. Adam stands up and extends his hand; there is no hint of hesitation, and that smile doesn't waver. Oscar stands and takes Adam's hand, also smiling, genuinely warm. It's like they're old pals getting together for drinks, and they've never met before today.

Oscar must have been Superman in a past life. He doesn't show a trace of fear.

Both sides back away from the table with care, and in no time Kris and his friends are bursting out the hotel doors and into the bright sunshine. The Marians are headquartered in the Miramar bungalows, just next to their strip of green farmland, and the ocean is so close that Kris can hear the crash of waves. He lifts his face and breathes deep. A breeze comes along and touches his face, heavy with salt water. The palm trees sway, veridian and sharp against a crystal blue sky.

"Makes you think about moving the Tower," Adam says, settling his arm around Kris's shoulders. "Step out your front door, go for a swim. A bath every day."

The diamond chains are scratching the back of Kris's neck where Adam's arm rests against him. He eels out from under its weight and makes a show of rubbing the itch away, so Adam won't feel bad.

Adam is still for a moment, looking out at the endless horizon. Kris watches, unsettled, then takes a step toward him - but the moment he does, Adam sighs and presses the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "So," he sighs. "That could have gone better."

Coming up alongside them, Katie pats Adam on the arm. "Easy, King. At least nobody got shot. Not half bad for a theater queen from San Diego."

"But what do I do about it?" Adam scowls, thumping down on one of the aging patio chairs. "The Marians don't get to be special, Kay. Like, they can be _special,_ but they still have to be _us_ \- they have to swear to us, they have to follow the rules and they have to accept how we do things. I don't want to be a fucking dictator, but I can't make exceptions or it all falls apart. Nobody'll listen to me and then people will split off on their own and then we find their fucking bodies next year, I can't..."

"I know," Katie says, crouching down by his chair and rubbing soothingly at his wrist. "We're just gonna have to figure out a way to make it work."

Kris wanders along the overgrown path as Adam and Katie talk, letting their voices fade from his ears. He was never good at telling people what they wanted to hear, even Before; he always cared how they felt, but he'd rather have said nothing than lie. Now he can't see why he'd bother. Now, you either accept how things are or you don't live very long. Adam told Mike that Santa Monica and Venice were his territory, and that's how it's going to be. Kris knows how the base works. Hunters will already be pushing the borders to see how long it takes for someone to push them back, and if it goes too long, they'll start killing just to prove they're in charge.

One way or another, the Marians have to put on diamonds and call Adam King. It's just a question of how many of them will have to be avenged when it's done.

But nobody wants to hear that. So Kris walks along the mossy edge of the swimming pool, black hem of his jacket brushing his heels, and breathes. He doesn't need to stir anything up, not right now.

It's nice out here, anyway; warm and still and quiet. The air tastes like ocean, thick with humidity. His shadow falls across the pool and the fish leap away, slapping the water with their tails. He has the urge to try to catch one of them with his bare hand, to kill it and eat it for lunch. It's not that he hasn't had fish in a long time; in fact, it was one of the few foods they could get regularly at the base, and he's in no hurry to eat it again. It's just that he thinks he could be fast enough.

But this pool doesn't belong to him - not yet, anyway. Maybe once the Marians have sworn fealty, Kris will come back here. With a spear.

"Excuse me, your highness."

Kris looks up to find one of the Marians in front of him. Gang tattoos wreath her arms and her neck; he recognizes a few numbers and acronyms from similar ink on his own people. "Yes," he says. His voice is rusty, and he finds he can't remember the last time he used it.

"We would like to invite you to eat with us," the woman says formally, and extends a hand toward the hotel. Kris sees his people already walking inside, and Adam looking at him expectantly.

Kris looks back to his host. She wasn't in the room before, with Oscar, but he thinks he remembers seeing her when they were brought in - one of the color guard, maybe. The Marians have a flag. "My name is Kris," he tells her, and puts out his hand.

"Allegra," she says, and shakes firmly. Her hand is rough from hard work, and Kris feels the strength in it.

They fall into step together, and once the speeches are done and food is portioned out, Kris works his way over to her again. Allegra's face is surprised when he says her name, and she goes to stand.

He puts a hand on her shoulder to keep her in her seat, then sits down beside her. The food on his plate looks good, fresh, and he selects a strip of what looks like chicken and eats it. It turns out to be peppered snake, which he's had before, but not quite this good. He takes a minute to let the spice wash over his tongue, then licks his lips. "That's amazing," he says. "Who makes it?"

Allegra's pride shows in the way she sits up straighter, in the curve of her mouth. "My brother, John. He used to be an actor, but you know, he's better now."

Kris laughs with her, and the ice is broken. He starts a conversation about that brother, which leads to the farming structure here, the infrastructure they've built. As he gently guides the topic toward the Marian defenses, he wonders if he'd recognize John if they met.

Not that it matters. He's just curious.

~

"God."

Kris digs his fingers into the black sheets and grits his teeth; he's sweating and desperate, and he's been that way for what feels like hours. Adam's cock is thick and heavy, and moving in him way too slow. It's hard to breathe.

"God, you're amazing," Adam slurs, rubbing a hand along Kris's back. It slips over the skin, Adam's rough fingertips creating more itch than they soothe.

Kris is squirming back against him in the same breath, shifting back on his knees to get more. "Adam," he hisses, his body electrified. "Harder."

"Want it harder?" Adam's voice is rough and smooth at the same time, scratchy in that way that warms Kris in the worst way. Adam braces his knees further apart. "Hold on, then."

Kris has been holding on for years.

The slam against his hips is brutal, blessedly so, and Kris doesn't hold back the groan. He pushes a hand down to grip his cock, squeezing tightly. Every time they do this, it's so intense - Adam inside him, the Tower silent, and only the clear and empty sky for miles in front of them. Kris strokes his dick, lets himself whine and snarl and say things that make no sense, and Adam fucks him just as hard as promised.

"Adam," he warns, when he can't get his breath and can't stand it anymore. "I'm."

"Yeah," Adam rasps back at him, nails digging into Kris's hips as he slams home. "Yeah, come on, baby. Do it, let me see you..."

Kris lets it come boiling up from his toes, washing over him in a bone-wracking wave and locking every muscle he's got. He lets it all go, and for a minute it's perfect. For one gorgeous, dreamy moment, he's flying over the city of angels with Adam beside him, and everything is safe and right and beautiful.

They curl up together afterward, Kris leaning against Adam's chest and brushing his fingers across the stubble there. "I know," Adam says wryly. "I gotta shave."

"Can't let the red give you away," Kris smiles.

"Among other things." Adam sighs, pleased, then grunts as he flings an arm in the direction of his bud box. He can't quite reach it, and lets his arm fall with a vague kind of grumble.

Kris snickers. "You are _sad._ Want me to get it?" Without waiting for an answer, he sits up and pulls the box over. The series of motions required to make them something big enough to share are second nature; he hasn't done them in years, but they're coming back quick. Pull-snip-crumble-roll-lick.

"Why are you even still vertical?" Adam asks pleasantly, watching Kris wield the silver scissors. "Shouldn't you be passing out now? Who are you? What have you done with my prince?"

Kris shrugs as he spreads green bits over the paper. His fingers are sticky - their brand would have sold for a mint, Before. "Dunno. Been thinking, I guess."

"About what?" Adam cups Kris's knee, rubs his fingers over the skin there.

Kris lets the silence stretch out as he thinks about the answer. He rolls the joint closed - it's kind of a cigarillo, honestly - and sets it on Adam's stomach with the lighter as he packs up the box. "About the Marians," he decides. "How to get them to understand who you are. How they're supposed to, y'know."

Adam grins, bright and beautiful. "Respect me?"

"Kinda." Adam's people treat him with reverence and awe. The King is superhuman to them, though they see his face every day, and their faith in his power is what gives them the freedom and strength to be what they must be. Getting the Marians to understand that will be difficult at best if Adam won't bring down the hammer, and he _will_ hesitate. He doesn't want a fight, not with people that are supposed to be his own. He wants to be fair and welcoming and build something out of the ruins. He's too... _nice_.

It's a strange thought. Kris remembers other people telling him that, Before, and wonders if there's anyone left on earth who'd say it to him now. Unlikely.

"You worry too much about my reputation," Adam says, sticking the joint in the corner of his mouth and flicking the lighter. "Jeannie was a Marian before she came to us. So were the Henrys, in the yellow house with the plum tree, you know them?"

There are six Henrys in the yellow house with the plum tree: a couple with three kids, plus one cousin. Kris can't remember all their names except for Laron, who's six and can't seem to understand that his little fingers will make the sound stop coming out of the guitar strings if he touches them. Kris met Laron at the bonfire one night, and then got drunk with the mother of the brood - Kris thinks her name is Rosie, but it's hard to remember. She tried to teach him how to play flamenco, and when he tried it made her laugh. He's always meant to stop by again and get a second lesson.

"And they're not the only ones," Adam says, white smoke making shapes out of his words, just above his head. "Once they can go home, I think some of them will, and some of the Marians will come here. They start mixing it up like that, I think they'll all get used to things quick enough." He offers the joint between two fingers, and Kris finds himself not wanting it.

"I'm gonna go grab some food," he says, and climbs off the bed. The balls of his feet are tingling; he wants to get up and run, to do something. "You go ahead."

Adam lifts an eyebrow. "You want me to get high all by myself?"

Kris smiles sharply at him. "I'll be back. Don't smoke the whole thing while I'm downstairs."

"No promises," Adam says, and puts a hand under his neck as he reclines against the pillows. The paper crackles as he drags deeply, and Kris laughs as he tries to find some pants.

In the stairwell, he makes it down one flight of steps before climbing up onto the rail. He teeters there for a second, trying to balance himself on the inches of space, three stories of empty air stretching down beneath him. His heart is thudding now, there's a reason for the sweat on his brow and the wild swell of nerves that shudders under his skin. He lives in it for a moment, memorizing how it feels to have all the hair on the back of his neck standing up, that sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Once he's found his center, he crouches and leaps into the center of the well, into a shaft of sunlight, into nothingness.

The rope that hangs from the ceiling is rough, and it burns his hands as he uses it to yank himself out of the air. He dangles there, making sure of his grip, gritting his teeth against the sting. He hears a spattering of applause from below.

The climb down is easy, the rope full of irregular knots that he's getting used to. He lets himself slide, feeling with his feet for the place he can catch himself. At the bottom, he drops into the waiting acrobat's net - tries to adopt the pose he'd have to use to keep himself in one piece if he fell from a roof, but he fucks up the landing and ends up spread-eagle.

Kris lies there, staring up into the well, and tries to remember that he isn't dead. He'll get it. It's just a matter of time and practice, and if he happens to fall off a roof between now and then, he'll just have to hope he doesn't break anything too vital.

He rolls onto his belly and scales the net, climbing toward the railing. Two people offer him their hands to help him over, which he accepts. He recognizes their faces but can't place them - they're always here in the tower, always together, but Kris doesn't know what for. "Morning, Highness," says the girl, cutting Kris a salute as he finds his footing. "How's the King?"

Her companion snorts. "Still naked."

The girl blushes hard. "Leo!" she admonishes, drawing out the O in his name.

"It's okay," Kris says, unable to help a smile. "He was five minutes ago, so."

Leo cracks up, his laughter echoing up and down the stairwell. The girl presses her fingers to her own smile.

Kris pats her on the arm as he slides past. "See you guys later."

"Bye, Highness," she manages to say, and the minute Kris is down a few stairs she smacks Leo hard on the shoulder and they start giggling all over again. It didn't strike Kris as all _that_ funny, but he supposes he understands anyway. Downstairs, he unlocks the pantry's padlock and lights the lantern. He's elbow-deep in glass jars when someone taps him on the shoulder.

It's like a few seconds go missing. Kris can't account for them. He can't find the olives, and then he's gripping someone by the throat, way too hard. He's pushing a body back against the table, his lips are twisted in a snarl, and he doesn't remember how he got here or why he's so angry.

It takes a second for the red haze to fade, for Kris to recognize the person he's holding - her favorite lipstick and the sweep of her lashes and the sparkling diamond brooch suspended at the center of her chest. He lets go and backs off, raising his hands. "Rahab, oh my... I'm sorry. I don't, I don't know what I was..."

Carefully, as though she's made of glass, she stands and fixes her shirt. There's a high flush on her cheeks, her gaze is carefully shuttered, and there are red lines beginning to rise on her throat. "It's all right," she says, in her sibilant, beautiful voice.

"No, please," Kris says, trying to keep from reaching out to her. He feels like dirt, his chest is hollow and sinking. "I don't know what got into me, I guess I'm just... jumpy. I don't know why. But that's not an excuse; I'm so sorry. Please believe me."

She looks at him for another tense, awful second. Then she rolls her eyes and gives him a little smile, and something bad leeches away. "Breathe, Kris, God. You'll give yourself a heart attack and then Adam will blame me." She gestures with a manicured hand - her girlfriend gives manicures, Kris remembers.

"I'm sorry," he says again, just for good measure. "Did you want to talk to me about something?" He shoves his hands in his pockets and bites his lip, compressing as much as he can.

Rahab tucks her hair behind one ear, which is adorned with some kind of jewelry that doesn't respect the laws of physics. "I think it'll keep," she says, cutting her eyes away. "But don't worry. It's nothing bad."

"Are you sure?" Kris asks. "I mean, I can... if you want, I -"

"Don't strain yourself," she smiles, genuine and warm. "I could talk to you at services tonight, if you're coming."

"Of course," Kris says, nodding emphatically. "Absolutely. I wouldn't miss it." In fact he would happily miss it - he can't stand the official days of worship at the Temple. Adam always wants Kris to stand with him and everyone watches them. Kris understands why that is, but he still hates it. There are these traditions they have now that make him want to crawl out of his skin... it's complicated.

But if Rahab told him to walk off the top of the Tower right now, he'd probably do it, so he nods and promises and makes her take a jar of blackberry jam from Adam's personal stash before he leaves her. It's the least he can do.

~

The drummers stutter to a stop, and Kris's stomach flips over.

"You okay?" whispers Star, solicitous as ever. He puts a hand on Kris's arm and the dying sun glints off the buttons on his red jacket; Kris is mesmerized. Star's brows crook together. "You just went, like, white. Whiter than usual."

People file past them into the Temple. "I'm fine," Kris says, forcing a smile as he slings an arm around the kid's skinny shoulders. Kris hates Temple, but he loves this kid. Star basically appointed himself Kris's personal ambassador after the coronation. His hero worship of Adam borders on fanatical, which makes Adam nervous, all of which is _adorable_. "Come on," Kris tells him. "They're gonna start without us."

Star frowns and walks with Kris into the main hall. "Okay. But if you pass out, I'm telling Adam you wouldn't let me help you. If he ever gets here."

"He said he'd be late, but he'll be here. I promise to pass out directly into your arms," Kris grins.

"Shh," Star hisses. "We're starting." He drags Kris over to a likely spot that isn't too crowded. Against the walls in here are perhaps a dozen pews mined from the nearby churches; Star picks one and the people sitting on it squeeze together so Kris can sit down. It's pointless to argue, he's learned, so he just takes the seat. Star sits on the floor, and leans against the knees of Kris's neighbor.

Katie and Patrick are standing side by side in the wide doorway that leads back into the Temple's dark halls. Their faces are serious and they both hold their hands clasped in front of them, lost in the drifts of their black robes. They're like a pair from a Greek chorus. To their right is a larger-than-life statue of Mary, her beatific face serene as she offers love and forgiveness in her upturned hands. Around her feet are gifts: feathers, smaller statues, jewels and candles in jars. To the left of the priests is a deep brazier with fire leaping from it, full of ash and cinders. At its base, and pinned to the wall behind it, are bits of blood-stained camouflage clothing, guns and knives that aren't decorated as their weapons usually are. There are a few grisly items that Kris has never looked at too closely, and never plans to.

The priests lift their hands in tandem; the murmuring and whispers immediately fade.

"Peace," they intone together.

Around the room, there is a rippling of replies - Kris hears a whole lot of the word _peace,_ but also _salaam_ and _shalom_ , and more that he can't yet identify. The prayer that opens Temple services is about their future, their hopes; Kris likes this one. It reminds him to want something better, to not get lazy. He chants with the crowd, and Star holds up two fingers in a V.

Katie and Patrick join hands then, and a couple of people in the audience come in to take their opposite hands. Kris shifts to the side and takes the hands of Star and the woman he's using for a backrest, and everyone across the hall follows suit. This is the kind of thing Kris was expecting when he came here for the first time; he remembers smirking at Adam as they held hands, sixteen wiseass comments dying to come out. The word _kumbaya_ had been chief among them.

"Brothers and sisters," Patrick begins. "We were born in pain and blood. Every life among us is good and needed. What you hold in your hands, right now, is all that matters."

A number of people murmur a response - Kris spies Danny over by the Hindu shrine saying a fervent _amen_.

Katie's voice then, smooth and gentle. "As you all know, we're soon going to absorb the Marians. For lots of you, that's friends and family. We're all hoping that it goes well, that they accept our King and our laws freely. If you pray this week, we ask you to remember the Marians. We ask for peace, for understanding, and the courage to be strong if we don't get it."

Another ripple of murmuring. Kris says nothing, because he doesn't want to open his mouth. It's debatable what might come out of it. His gut is tying itself in a hard, hateful knot, but he bites the inside of his cheek and says nothing, because he's not an asshole. After a moment of quiet, they all drop hands and settle back to their seats.

"We have something special for you today," Patrick says, and smiles wide. He's got a crazy, jack-o-lantern smile, his scraggly goatee and stubbly head making him look diabolical. "I know there have been some of you who noticed that the King isn't out here with us, but he's here tonight. We'd like to ask him to come out now, but before we do we're going to ask you to keep quiet, okay? No clapping, no shouting, no howling."

Kris raises an eyebrow. Half the people in the room glance at him in the next five seconds, but he's as surprised as they are.

"Adam," Katie calls, her voice like cotton candy: wispy, soft, too sweet. "Come out now."

From behind the doorway comes Adam's tall, familiar form. He's decked out in white, his collar sparkling, and his face is unusually clean today - just a touch of eyeliner and powder. What's really striking, though, what really draws the eye, is the tiny bundle in his arms and the idiot face he's making at it.

"We have a new brother," Katie sings over the immediate ripple of happy buzz. "Everybody come say hi to Carey Landau."

People clamber to their feet and line up to touch the baby. Kris gets in line, and when it's his turn he presses his nose to the soft white blanket and lets Carey gurgle and pull his hair. His stomach untwists a bit, and he breathes deep of the powdery baby smell. Adam laughs at him but he doesn't care, just lets the warmth spread out inside him.

The parents stand next to Adam so people can shake their hands and congratulate them; Kris is meeting them for the first time because they live way up at the commune in the Troubadour, just at the edge of WeHo. They know of him, though, and he promises them that he'll come visit soon and take a tour of their rooftop garden.

Eventually the baby gets sick of all the attention and starts to fuss, so Adam surrenders him and comes to sit down with Kris in the pew. People scramble to get out of his way, but he insists they stay seated and winds up leaning against Kris, his ass on the bench and his legs kicked up across a couple of other people's laps. They laugh and hold onto him, which he allows without a flicker of self-consciousness.

 _Alpha,_ Kris thinks fondly, and wraps an arm around Adam's shoulders.

"Okay," Patrick says, as he and Katie resume their places. "Down, you guys, down."

There's a smattering of laughter, and Katie claps her hands. Her expression has gone sad and serious, and people abruptly get quiet. This is the part Kris can't stand. Some people don't even come to Temple services because of this; Brad flatly refuses to attend except for weddings. Kris wishes he could get away with that.

"Camarillo," says Katie, and sounds thirty years older.

"Philadelphia," says someone from the audience, lifting their voice a little to be heard.

"Boston," says another, and sniffs. Kris can see an arm go around someone's shoulders.

People call out names, unhurried. Kris feels the absence of millions on his shoulders - heavier because everyone in this room had someone they knew there. Someone says London, someone else says Manila, and Kris feels the rage start to build in his gut. Nobody ever came for them, not from anyone's old home. Maybe nobody gives a shit, maybe they've just been written off. Or maybe all those places are dead too, like the whole planet blew each other up or the plague spread through the airports, and everyone, everywhere, is just _dead_. Either way, everyone in the entire world is fucked, and Kris doesn't see why they have to have a goddamn ceremony about it every week.

He feels the vibration in his legs when Adam says _San Diego_ , and bile crawls up his throat. Adam's mom was so great, and she might even be alive only a few hours away by car, but they'll never know. They'll never even _know._ He thinks about naming Conway, and he wants to throw up. His mind is going blank, words fading away in the heat. His fist curls on the pew, and even when Adam rubs a soothing hand along his arm, it makes him angry.

It's not fair to be angry with Adam, or with these people for what they're doing; he knows that. He grits his teeth and wills it out of his head, wills himself not to say anything no matter how much fury he has to swallow back. He's not the kind of person who'd do that, he's _not_ , and he repeats it over and over in his head as the names trickle to a halt.

When it's done, Patrick lifts his arms and shouts _Los Angeles_ at the ceiling. The people shout and wail and howl their grief, and Kris is grateful that none of them will see his nails digging into the wood.

That's one thing about this place, Kris thinks. Back at the base it was awful, but at least they didn't shove it in your face. Back then, it stayed buried.

When the howls fade, Katie starts the song they use to close services. It's like their anthem, written by a woman who died in the war with Beverly Hills. They sang it at her funeral. Kris tries to think about traditions and lost family to distract himself from the rage boiling in the back of his throat. Choking it back is a skill he honed at the base, but here in the kingdom it seems to be more and more necessary. Adam strokes his arm again - just absently, because he's Adam and he loves everybody - and that helps.

The song finishes, and Katie and Patrick tell the assembly to go in peace. Everyone gets to their feet and stretches, and Kris follows along.

Across the hall, he spots Rahab making her way through the crowd toward them. Kris's face prickles with uncomfortable heat when he looks at her; he didn't mention his little break with sanity to Adam. He edges away, taking care not to draw any attention, and moves to intercept. When he reaches her, he tries to look as inoffensive as possible. "Hey."

"There you are," she says. She's not giving him the genuine smile he's used to, and his heart sinks, but if Rahab notices Kris's misery, she ignores it. In a perfect Vanna White impression, she frames the man beside her with her hands. "Highness, meet Cherry. I don't think you've been introduced - formally, anyway."

Cherry is an average-sized guy, but obviously a soldier. His face is battleworn, even the hand he presents to shake is scarred. Kris can't help but notice as a few people around them sneak looks at Cherry, as a few more slide surreptitiously away. A circle is clearing around them, and Kris can feel the aura of _big bad guy_ that Cherry's putting off. "It's actually Lee Cherry," he says as Kris takes his hand. "But people liked the last name, and it kind of caught on."

"Nice to meet you," Kris says. "I'm sorry, I'm still learning who everyone is - don't you lead a patrol team?"

"A pack," Cherry corrects. "There are about twelve of us Jackals." When the word _Jackals_ hits the air, the circle of space around them widens. Cherry doesn't even blink. "We're usually up at Petersen. You know why?"

Kris remembers studying the maps on Adam's desk a couple of days ago, listening to Adam explain the surrounding gangs. Some were what might be called friendly, like the Culvers and the folks in Silverlake. They might follow in the Marians' footsteps and be absorbed by Adam's people one day. But there were other gangs who never would be, given what they'd done. When Adam took their land, their leaders would be marched to the canyon in chains.

"You guys are watching for the Wilshire group," Kris says, hoping that he remembers the list of enemies right. "Out past La Brea."

Cherry smiles then, sharp with a hint of smug arrogance. "That's right. We hold Miracle Mile - if they take the mile, they take La Cienega, and then they'll have a straight line up Olympic to the Tower - which is why we're not about to let 'em have it."

Kris can feel himself going into a kind of automatic response to Cherry. He's met a hundred or more guys like this in his life, both at the base and Before. Life hasn't been kind, and they're gonna be unkind right back, and you don't get in their way. "No," Kris says firmly, like he knows what he's talking about. "We sure can't have any movement out on that border. Thank you for all the Jackals are doing there."

Cherry lifts an eyebrow, his eyes locked to Kris's face. "You didn't tell him."

"I wanted him to meet you first," Rahab shrugs. She turns to Kris and crosses her arms over her flat, narrow chest. "Cherry's pack is our toughest. Someone has to teach you how to protect us, and you've proven you know how to fight." She too lifts an eyebrow, and a sickening thump of guilt runs from the pit of Kris's stomach down to his toes.

Blood on the pavement. Blood in the fountain.

"I don't," he protests, shaking it off. "I mean, we got basic combat at the base, and I had some self-defense before that from when I was doing missionary work, but-"

"That's about six times better than most everybody else we've trained," Cherry shrugs. "But that's not why I don't want you, Highness. I mean, even aside from the epic shit fit I'd get out of Adam if you so much as scratched your pinkie - I gotta think about my pack. We got a reputation. No offense."

Kris is still reeling from the idea of him joining. He's opens his mouth to make all the excuses Cherry could want - but Rahab gets there first. She hauls Cherry around by the arm to face her. Her made-up features exaggerate everything, and it takes Kris a minute to figure out that she's only annoyed. "Excuse me, but how do you figure the Jackals' precious reputation would suffer by having the fucking Prince join up?"

Cherry scowls right back at her. "Because, sweetheart, Jackals are _tough_. And I get that his Highness is blooded, but it's one thing to snap when you got a gun in your face, and another thing altogether to shoot a man in cold blood from two hundred feet away. No offense, your Highness, but until a few weeks ago, you were hunter bait. It's not even necessarily a bad thing, it's just facts. I don't think you've got it in you."

"You're wrong," Rahab says, and there's no doubt at all in her voice. She looks at Kris, and he sees a multitude of sins reflected in her eyes - stuff she doesn't even know about. Like when they tried to take him out of his house, away from Katy's body, and he used her thermometer to stab someone he didn't know in the eye. Like that time when Matty was sick, he was really sick, and Kris had already given him all the water they had - he went to the mess and told Private Hendricks he needed more, and if Hendricks didn't want anyone to find out about his boyfriend, he'd find a way to make a couple of bottles disappear. Like squeezing his fingers around Rahab's throat and thinking: _Adam, no, it's not safe, Adam's alone upstairs._

He doesn't remember having this part of him in the Before. It feels like an intruder inside him and he hates it, but he can't deny it, not with Rahab staring him down. Kris turns his face away.

Rahab's voice has a waver now, and she lowers it as she leans closer to Cherry. "There is something _there,_ and you gotta use it. I don't wanna be here if you don't."

Silence hangs between them, and Kris doesn't dare look up.

Finally a hand slides up his shoulder and it's Adam - warm, safe, beautiful Adam. There's a glimmer of something hard in his eyes. "Rahab, Lee. What's up, guys?" His voice sounds super friendly, and Kris knows that Adam's mostly feeling that way - but if he starts getting angry, he could turn on a dime.

"I'm just talking to them about running with the Jackals," Kris says, putting an arm around Adam's waist. "At least for a while, to learn the ropes."

Adam's razor gaze slips away from Rahab and Cherry and by the time he's looking at Kris he's gone all empathetic. "Honey, are you sure? The Jackals have a pretty rough beat."

Kris thinks about a soldier clutching at his eye, screaming. He thinks of cracking open a bottle of water for Matty and promising it was clean. "I'm sure," he says, and manages a smile. "I'll learn how to do some good for our people. Cherry'll look out for me, and when I'm done I'll come home."

 _And I'll be me,_ he adds silently. _I'll keep this thing in Miracle Mile, I'll let it out when I'm there, and you'll never see it. I'll always be me, when I'm with you._

Adam watches him for a long second. When he leans in to kiss Kris's forehead, Kris closes his eyes and listens. Inside his mind there's nothing but warm, safe and beautiful - the intruder is gone.

**Author's Note:**

> for elizaria, wagacca, kairi_01, orihara_kaoru, cellia and proserpina_kore, who teamed up to raise _300 fucking dollars_ for clean water in the hooplamagnet charity drive.


End file.
